This Way Madness Lies
by IDOL HANDS
Summary: A meeting of the minds, a contract of the soul, a compromise of the heart. I think you will recognize the person through whom the story is told, without introduction. Cross-over, Charlie is grown, implied slash, implied het.


**Title:** This Way Madness Lies

**By:** IDOL HANDS

**Rating:** PG

**Warnings:** Cross-over, Charlie is grown, implied slash, implied het

**Disclaimer:** I have loved the stars too fondly to be afraid of the night. Oh and, none of the characters are mine nor do they earn me a single farthing. Furthermore, any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. _cough_

**Summary:** Short story. A meeting of the minds, a contract of the soul, a compromise of the heart. I think you will recognize the person through whom the story is told, without introduction.

**"Welcome to Wonkaland"**

Charlie Bucket was the secondary owner of the factory, an attractive young man who stood out only because of the overwhelming normalcy of his appearance where a total lack of normalcy otherwise pervaded. Amenable and highly likable, he wasn't the problem. The problem was the primary owner and name with the claim to fame, Willy Wonka - a man who would scare the daylights out of a practiced exorcist, but who also happened to make the best tasting candy that ever touched your tongue. Young Mr. Bucket always seemed to be oblivious to his mentor's disturbing demeanor, which in and of itself, was also disturbing.

Our get-togethers and discussions were always jovial, the items served delicious enough to excuse the whirling perplexities of his surroundings. But, I couldn't take it any longer. There he sat – slender physique, slightly long but ordinary haircut, a knit sweater in muted hues and gentle, polite manner.

"More tea?"

"In order to try another one of those colored cubes, I think I must."

The piping hot liquid made a comforting curdling noise as it was poured. There was no color to it, for it was only hot water at the moment. I glanced at the rainbow of sugar cubes in the nearby bowl. I'd tried a blue one and had been quite satisfied with the result. I wondered what a red one might do and reached for it. Young Mr. Bucket's eyes followed mine, his lips had an enchanting bow shape to them and like his mentor (though far less alarmingly so) he always seemed to be smiling. Of course he already knew what the result of each color would be. Old Mr. Wonka let nothing on the market without the final approval of his protégé.

I changed my mind at the last minute and picked up a yellow cube, dropping it quickly into the water while petals of steam rose off it. Immediately, the yellow bled out and transformed into a soft glow like the sun rising over a horizon. This was pleasant but shocking, the light reached my eyes and had I been feeling groggy, that certainly would have woken me up! One's senses were next intrigued by the smell of fresh orange with a hint of lemon peel, the glow subsiding to a perfect cup of sweetened tea. All there was to decide was if one desired cream in it. I'd seen the bondage treatment that the cows of the factory received, although they appeared to quite enjoy it, I decided against any dairy.

"Dawned On You."

"Pardon?"

"That's the name of that variety. Spaced Out was the first one you tried. Originally Willy wanted to make those cubes black, but I felt that was too harsh."

"He uh, he rather does seem to like the dark, doesn't he?"

"Hm?"

The young man looked at me puzzled. Charlie Bucket couldn't be a dolt, how could he be so perceptive about these recipes and formulas, but oblivious to the maker's crazy vibe? It irritated me.

"Wonka. You don't find him uh…unusual?"

"He's a genius. He thinks differently than most people."

Quite casually stated. The heavenly mint scent of his green cube tea reached my nose. Arabic patterns traced and changed across the liquid as he took a sip. It didn't distract me from the fact that I was certain he was attempting to avoid the subject, public relations and all that I suppose. Courteousness aside, ascertaining this young man's full grasp on reality was foremost on my mind. My mouth had opened to speak, but the words were brusquely interrupted.

"Charlie!"

Speak of the devil. The chocolatier's personal appearance was highly unusual, but the fact that our meeting had been taking place on a large type of hot air balloon, made it even more extraordinary!

"I was thinkin' that we really oughta get on top of this cloning trend that's the rage these days. Whattaya think of candies that reproduce themselves? Imagine it, you could buy a whole bag of candy by just buyin' one! Then after you opened it, they'd pop into 20 or thirty or so like popcorn!"

It was his giddy laugh that tended to seal the deal that one was not dealing with a sane individual; a sound more like claws across a chalkboard than the charming echo of faerie frivolity. The man stopped suddenly. Putting a gloved hand just nearly to his lips, always careful about what he touched -- how much he connected to any living being -- then added an alarming addendum to his original idea. He, however, sounded intrigued rather than upset by the notion.

"Of course if they gobbled the one piece before waiting the proper time, then the things would multiply inside their intestines."

"Willy, we have company."

As if made more of wood than flesh, from the torso up he swung to face me. Lines on the face were few, certainly not enough to warrant the long shock of pure white hair that the once deeply brown had become over the years. Eyes wide, wild, looking at me as if I were an alien species; Wonka had a habit of making you wonder if he was examining you or looking through you. One wondered what registered as "real" inside a mind that blended 1960's psychedelic with Victorian romance in their wardrobe. He'd taken to wearing a monocle, but the glass inside was a prism, so it couldn't have been actually assisting his vision, only distorting it further. Worse, it made it appear, to the person he was looking at, as if he had _dozens_ of eyes like an insect. People would mention the beauty of their peculiar twilight color, the few who had seen them, but I see no beauty in the gaze regardless. There was nothing but a sense of relief when he turned away to ignore me again.

"Oh. Err, well then, we'll discuss this later. But you think about it!"

"I will. I promise."

"Is it a good idea?"

"All your ideas are good, Willy. It's just that the world isn't ready for some yet."

He'd sounded like a child in need of parental approval with that last question, total opposite of the arrogant businessman who had swooped in. A broad smile appeared on the factory owner's face at the response. And when I say broad, do not misunderstand me, I mean wide as a crocodile about to eat a dinner of fresh carcass. The manners of a gentleman returned, I was given a parting glance of chalk colored skin gone the barest rose from flattery. His voice had an edge of cuteness to it, never quite suiting the masculine qualities but permanently, disturbingly, present even in anger. He addressed me sideways.

"Don't keep him too long, I…uh, the _factory_ needs him."

"I understand."

Wonka tipped his hat and left by way of his extraordinary Great Glass Elevator. A vehicle, that like his life, permitted him to do anything he wanted, perfectly protected, while able to observe all the while. God-like. I often wondered exactly how much he saw. A shiver ran up my spine at that notion and a sickened realization that some small part of me was excited by the idea, along with the deeper weight of disgust. I was tired of tiptoeing around the subject. I needn't look behind me; Charlie's eyes had followed, joining mine only when the last glimpse of him was gone. Detecting things through reverse methods was a trick I'd acquired long ago.

"This isn't going to work."

"What isn't?"

"Us."

The vibrations of machinery and distant sounding of warning alarms filled the silence; a humming of elocution from his minions of workers who also no doubt knew every nuance of happenstance within the walls. Sing-song ways didn't intimidate me though, just as so much of the factory hadn't; so much except the one factor. I dared to add my most dominant unspoken thought since first making everyone's acquaintance.

"I'll never get used to Wonka. He's the maddest person I've ever met and that's saying rather a lot, considering."

"Maybe…maybe you'd be mad too if life kept ripping away your soul, robbing you bit by bit of everything you owned, twisting the things that brought you happiness into torture. Why must everyone judge him so? Please, he…he does like you."

"No, he _approves_ of me. Those are two very different things."

"I'll be a good husband, a good father and provider. You'll never lack for anything."

I sighed. I didn't doubt those words. It was partly what had drawn me here a while back to the offer, that and a way to escape my fairytale into another, although I hadn't realized at the time that both were similarly fractured. I looked around, our ride was literally a basket tethered to a cloud, like all dreams – defying gravity only on belief. Underneath I knew the truth; the debt, which must be paid for denying reality, for thinking one ever could fully escape. Even the shrewdly clever Willy Wonka had paid a price, but sadomasochist that he was, had returned over and over for more luscious highs and serve punishments. Now he couldn't tell real from fake anymore, his very form permanently warped into an ode to the sacrifice. A sort of bravery I suppose, but an equal amount of cowardice was involved as well.

I stood up, smoothing down my skirt and petticoats. Charlie Bucket and I, we lived in other people's dreams, walked in two worlds at once, but we always spoke the truth. Without it, we were completely lost, our tight wire would snap and we'd fall forever into the bottomless hole. And so, I held no fear as I added my final observation.

"You'll never love me more than you love him."

He didn't speak at first. He looked ashamed, like he wanted to deny it or attempt to temper the words into something more platonic. That's what everyone else thought after all, those less gifted with insight and less used to dealing with stuff and nonsense. I would not shake my patient but stern stare as his features drew into sadness, a kind of mourning.

"But what point is there in loving someone, who can never love you, the way that you love them?"

"What point indeed?"

I gave a moment for the irony to sink in. It did. He stood up too. We did look nice side by side and I respected him for not denying my accusations or getting upset. I think he respected me for being so straightforward; there was no malice in the young man's make up. What a waste for such a mighty heart to be won by someone who'd never understand. At the same time it was also romantically tragic in a way that made me like the young man all the more. He extended his bare hand to bid me adieu. The elevator had somehow psychically re-appeared to carry me back.

"You're a lot a like, you know."

"Are you trying to be funny?"

"Not at all."

I squinted, mildly aggravated, scrutinizing him but more so myself. My perfectly pressed clothes, dated headband, lace trimmed socks and air of precocious superiority, the tendency to get lost in fantasy while chasing after silly notions and getting into countless predicaments because of it. Could I let another person love me either? Suddenly I felt like a crazy old man in a velvet frock up to my ears in fudge. Egad! I realized that I disliked the factory owner so intensely because he resembles everything I've ever feared wrapped into a single entity; the permanent grin of false politeness, excessive top hat and apparel, lyrical wisdom geared by foolish logics and a vengeful, egomaniacal spirit. But why did I dread those things? Was it because I disliked them within myself, because I wanted to concur such elements and set them right? Curiouser and curiouser.

Carefully, I thought about the layers under the layers, the masquerade of the heart, the ways in which we all hide ourselves and the ways in which our paths cross upon imaginary trails -- white rabbits hopping and teasing us along. This was no accident of circumstance. Fantasies are equally inescapable, sticky as moist sugar. I had gotten lost in thought when the soft, familiar English voice reached my ears.

"Won't you please reconsider? You're the only one who understands. You'd still have plenty of time to daydream. In fact, we'd encourage it."

"I'm not sure I'm not dreaming right now."

"Is that a yes?"

"…if you can accept me as I am, then I will accept you as you are."

"What more could anyone ask? How much closer is there to true love?"

He made a valid point. Charlie took my hand again, holding it this time as he joined me upon the Great Glass Elevator. No doubt we were off to tell the good news of our nuptials to his family and of course his willy-nilly mentor. I am no princess, he no prince, but each of us are heirs to hidden yet pervasive dream realms; we stand as victims and guardians to their rulers. Mad Queen to Mad King, check mate. Together we are comfort, loneliness with company, and freedom without surrender.

There is sex and there is love, peace and violence, purity and sin. All of them luscious in their own flavors but none as delicious as ideas, the lands in which imagination plays and runs rampant, blending and stirring them together in unexpected, and therefore possibly deviant ways. It is here, in these temporal metamorphasized states, that you will find the maddest and bravest of souls. Follow us if you dare, but don't expect to leave unscathed. That is, if you ever _do_ manage to leave.

_Twas brillig, and the slithy toves  _

_Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: _

_All mimsy were the borogoves,  _

_And the mome raths outgrabe…_

The Neverending End

**Author's Notes:** There's nothing like stories that grow from nothing – this was the barest notion, which sprung forth into its own being. Although that's the very definition of creation, isn't it? Nothing really comes from nothing anyway even if we pretend otherwise.

The color cube, instant tea was inspired by this image, which graced my desktop for a while:

http i13(dot)photobucket(dot)com(slash)albums(slash)a300(slash)idolhands(slash)Desktop2-23-08(dot)jpg

_the masquerade of the heart_ - is a line from Michael Jackson's song, "Is It Scary".

Once again, I'd like to state that I really dislike the formatting of FFN and apologize for the incorrect coding of the first upload.

If you really don't know the woman in the story, then you must read more Lewis Carroll (who wrote the last stanza); another weaver of tales, where nothing, is quite what it seems.


End file.
